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And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; The watery bow burned in the evening flame. But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way– And that is dead.–O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live!
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And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; The watery bow burned in the evening flame. But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way– And that is dead.–O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live!